


The seventh floor

by flash in the pan (MadameLaMielleuse)



Category: David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameLaMielleuse/pseuds/flash%20in%20the%20pan
Summary: It's her home, but not as she knows it. Things aren't what they seem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701960) by [WriterOfThought](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterOfThought/pseuds/WriterOfThought). 



At the point she already saw herself eye to eye with the boy, she knew that she had to be on the wrong floor. He was her age, gangly and a tad smaller than most of his peers, and stared at her without saying a word, as she stood in the elevator, not moving an inch.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I must be mistaken." Even though this wasn’t possible, her inner voice objected. You couldn’t end up in the wrong apartment when all you had to do is use your chip. This was like opening a door with the wrong key. And yet – this small room looked exactly as it should. A small entrance hall, cozy and showered in golden light.

The boy still hadn’t replied. Even though it was him standing in _her_ apartment, she didn’t dare to enter. Despite the warm light he looked a bit puny. His narrow face was surrounded by a fluff of dark blonde hair. He was peaky and still hadn’t left pimples behind.

She already expected him stay silent when he opened his mouth. "Where did you just come from?" His teeth were crooked, something you would call British gnawers.

"From outside, of course." She took a step back as he suddenly moved towards her. Light stroked his eyes, and it was as if her answer had struck a nerve with him. He looked at her with a sort of longing fascination and it started to freak her out. She glimpsed to the elevator panel and pressed the button for the seventh floor, hoping the doors would shut right in front of his nose. Nothing happened. The button didn’t even light up.

"Do you think I can come with you?" the boy asked excited. He had stopped, as if some invisible barrier was between the apartment and the elevator. The way he said it made him seem less frightening and more like an animal raised in captivity. She eyed him cautiously.

"I don’t know – I think so?" Her eyes flickered to the display above the door. A bright and red seven. How would she ever be able to leave this odd place, if nothing worked?

Suddenly, the door to the northern part of the apartment was opened. "Would you stop just standing in my way?" a voice snarled. A man came into view. He was even skinnier than the boy. Despite their immaculate precision, his tailored clothes didn’t seem to fit him properly. Shirt and dark pants seemed too wide for his statue, only his vest wrapped tightly around his ribcage. He was as white as the wall behind him; his cheekbones seemed to throw shadows on his hallow cheeks. She would’ve taken him for a ghost, without neither life nor substance, if it hadn’t been for his orange hair. It was drained in product and combed back, not one strand falling into his eyes. And suddenly, it dawned on her, what this was. She knew his eyes before he actually looked at her, piercingly.

"Who are you?" he snapped.

It hit her harder than expected to look him in the eye. She stumbled back and pressed herself into the corner of the elevator cabin, staring at him in shock. She had to leave, she didn’t want to be here. This wasn’t real – it couldn’t be real, of course not. Her tongue seemed to stick to her palate.

She didn’t answer quickly enough for him, so he averted his attention back to the boy. "Davey – who is this?"

"I – I don’t know… I just stood here and waited when the elevator came?" Davey mumbled. Through his dark blonde lashes, he glimpsed towards her. Set against the hard voice of the duke, his voice sounded even more soft-spoken and hesitant.

She swallowed and as if it was a wonder, her larynx got wider. Her breath settled down. "I think I want to go," she almost croaked. "Please. _Sir_."

The realization had snuck its cold finger beneath her ribcage and grasped her heart. This wasn’t _him_ – they both couldn’t be real, no matter how colorful they were.

"This wasn’t the question I asked you," he replied without remorse. "Who are you?"

She took a deep breath. "My name is Jones. Alexandria Jones."

For another second, he just glared at her. He looked very stern and aristocratic; regal, but not in a good way. "Well, come in," he commanded her. "Or are you going to stand there till you drop dead? It’s your choice, really. There’s not much going on here, to be frank. A bunch of old men leading dreary lives." With a haughty expression, as if he saw himself not being part of that club, he walked further down the hallway, without giving her a last look.

It was just when she heard the door to the living room clasp that Lexi felt herself trembling. It was as if her body had already realized how unsettling this was. At the same point she was relieved that the Duke was gone. When she looked at Davey, she wasn't the only one.

"There’s more of you?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded and stepped aside to make way for her. "- Can I take your coat or bag?" he then offered, as she finally dared to step out of the elevator. In hope to get further information from him, she let him help out of her jacket. He gave her a nervous smile.

"Okay, but what did he say about the others? The bunch of old men?" she quizzed him. When she said the expression her father had used so often, her heart gave a painful sting.

"Oh, we’re not many these days. It’s been a very quiet afternoon. The rest has gone out and the Duke likes to exaggerate. I mostly go out of his way, he is very flakey with his moods. – This way, please." Davey directed her to come with him to the northern living room. As the entrance hall, it was the same as always, but instead of her mother, there was another man sitting in the armchair by the window. He was older than the Duke and engrossed in a book. When Davey and Lexi stepped into the room, he looked up. With a heavy heart, she noticed that his face was smoother than she had ever consciously seen it. He wouldn’t know her, either.

"Zulekha?" he uttered with a stunned look on his face. "What are you doing here?"

Taken aback, Lexi hesitated. He already knew her mother, then. She peered at his hand: he already wore a wedding band. "I’m not Zulekha," she murmured. She couldn't speak more clearly. Suddenly, all her strength had left her. He knew her mother and both of her half-siblings, but not her. With an overwhelming sense of loneliness, she followed his nonverbal invitation to take a seat on the couch next to him. Everything was familiar; the way she sunk into the soft cushions, the soft smell of vanilla coming from the half-burnt down scented candle on the sofa table. Without thinking about it, she took one of the matches and lit the small light.

Nobody had broken the silence, but when she looked up, she felt two curious pair of eyes on her. The older of the two hid it better than Davey, but when her glance met his, he took his chance.

"Excuse me for asking so bluntly, but who are you then?" he politely asked. While the Duke or Davey almost looked like different persons, his face was too familiar.

"You wouldn’t know me," she murmured. The lump in her throat seemed to grow bigger.

"She comes from outside," Davey said.

"Oh, well, you’re right then: I wouldn’t know about that," her father-to-be said with a slight smile. "It’s been years since I last saw that."

His bright eyes wandered towards the window front, but instead of the balcony, nothing was there. It was as if the glass had become old and milky or whole New York had been steeped into fog that was too thick to be real.

A tinkering sound fetched her attention. Her father had grasped a glass next to him on the small coffee table. A golden liquid with ice cubes was in it. The smell of bourbon wove through the air. Without being able to keep herself from staring, Lexi watched him take a sip and then gently re-placing the glass on the table. He didn’t drink, or at least she had never witnessed him doing it. It was a strange sight to witness.

"Oh, how thoughtless of me – can we offer you a drink?" he mistook her glance.

"I’m only fifteen."

"Oh, I’m sorry. – I would’ve thought you to be older than Davey there, and he’s seventeen. But then again, we’re in America, aren’t we? Drinking age is 21. How odd."

"Because 18 year olds are considered to be responsible enough to vote, but not to drink responsibly?" Lexi said. All of a sudden, it was this sentence that brought tears to her eyes. He wouldn’t know her for another six years, but to her he already was so much like the man he would be as her father.

"Exactly." With an estranged look on his face, he mustered her again. "Are you sure we don’t know each other?"

"Yes," she felt tired already. "Nobody knows me here."

"I do," somebody behind them said. Her head flew around, and there he was – her father. He was blonder and younger than he lastly had been, but it was him, without doubt. Lexi jumped up from her seat and jolted through the room, into his arms. The worry that she could fall right through him only caught up with her when she already was in his arms. He smelled after a different perfume, but she seemed to know the smell nevertheless, as from a distant memory.

"Daddy," was the single word she had left. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." She wanted to tell him how empty it all seemed, how much her mother missed him while hiding her grief, and that he needed to come back, but she couldn't bring herself to utter anything else.

"God, the last time I saw you, you weren’t this tall," he let go of her to muster her. "But you still look the same – I always hoped you’d inherit as much of Iman as possible…"

"Wait a minute, Dave. She’s not Zulekha," the David in the armchair said. He had stood up and was pouring himself another drink. "She’s not Iman’s daughter."

"She is." With a warm and proud smile her father led her back to the couch. "She’s our daughter, I told you about her, remember? Her name is Alex. – No, wait," he suddenly interrupted himself. "We recently had started to call you Lexi, I believe, when I met you. Did that stick?"

Lexi nodded with a bright smile. Her arm was still around his waist. He knew her. He was real and alive. This was not a nightmare anymore. Through the soft fabric of his shirt she could feel his warmth.

"So the marriage actually worked out?" the David in the armchair asked. On his face was doubt.

"In our first year, we had a few rows," her father explained towards Lexi. "I always told him that it ended in bliss very soon after, but he doesn’t believe me, of course…"

Silently, she looked at him smile. He looked blissfully healthy and lively; there was no trace of the struggle against time and death. But even though she didn't want to destroy this moment, something about the way he had said it didn't feel right.

"Why?" she asked with a slight furrow in her brows. "Why doesn’t he believe it? You’re all the same person, so why doesn’t he know?"

The David in the armchair scoffed, but didn’t reply. Davey on her dad’s other side gave her a look that seemed an excuse for the rude behavior.

Her father seemed lost in thought, looking at the burning candle in front of him. "You see, Alex," he finally said quietly. "We’re not the same person. We’re fragments. And we’ll come out when he needs us."

For a moment, Lexi just sat there, digesting this new information. "So you are… feelings?"

"Different parts of what makes up a human being, but essentially: yes," her father nodded. She noticed that despite his smile, his eyes still were heavy with sadness and grief. She had never seen it as explicitly, just as she couldn’t remember him being this youthful, or rather: wrinkle free. He’d always been youthful. Happy, smart, joyous, funny, loving. The thought gave her heartaches.

"That doesn’t answer my question."

Even Davey laughed when she said that, although very quietly. The David in the armchair filled up his glass once again.

"Oh, you’re clever." Her father grinned, before he sobered up. "Well – when he needs us, we’ll go and leave this apartment. It’s the only way we can get a glimpse of the world outside, through his eyes. And when he needs us…"

"… you’ll adopt his looks."

He nodded. Lexi looked at Davey, who had waited in front of the elevator in hope of a chance to get out; she remembered the Duke with his cold, hard sentences; she thought of her father, who didn’t drink unlike the man in the armchair, and who had never looked at her and the world around him with such despair as the man next to her.

"And you’ll stay that way until he calls you again," she said quietly. "Because you don’t know what’s going on when you don’t see it through his eyes. And if he doesn’t feel a certain way again, you don’t age."

Nobody reacted to that epiphany, but deep down, she felt that it must’ve been right. They were ghosts from the past; forgotten or left behind feelings. It explained the Duke and the alcoholic in the armchair, but she was uncertain what Davey was. He seemed like a shy guy, but her father, up until the end, had been shy (even though he hadn't liked to admit it).

"Who are you, then?" she asked him. "What are you doing here?"

Davey shrugged. "I don’t know." He looked at the version of himself that was at least forty years older than him. "See, she feels it too."

"What do I feel?" Lexi interfered, also directing the question at the man next to her.

"That I don’t belong here," Davey said, and the incarnation of her father nodded very slightly.

"He’s not sure, what his destiny is, or what he wants to do," he said quietly. "As you can see, we got rid of that very soon…"

They fell silent again. Lexi looked around, in the familiar room that was filled with nothing but strangers. Her father wasn’t here. He was gone. Everything that was left of him were unused puzzle pieces, masks he no longer had worn. Everything that was left of him were the parts that didn’t matter, everything he hadn’t been. Her eyes dwelled up again, and hastily she looked back to the candle, hoping not to cry.

"What a shitty world we brought you into, isn't it?" the man she had thought of as her father asked.

Despite everything, she shook her head. It was as if she couldn't help to object. "You’re wrong" she said. There were tears in her eyes but her voice was reliable and stable. "You’re wrong, and you’re not him. You’re not my father. You don’t even know me, either." The sentence felt as sharp and hurtful in her mouth to her as it was intended towards him.

He didn't reply. She wondered whether he knew that she was right or whether he was not able to accept it, just as the man in the armchair was damned to drink and waste away.

She stood up abruptly. "I’ll go home now. My mom is waiting for me."

 

"It’s not always like this, you know," Davey tried to apologize for what had happened when they were in the entrance hall, waiting for the elevator. "There are much more of us."

Lexi looked to him. Just in his presence, without the others, she felt more calm again. He reminded her of herself; a bit aimless, full of dreams, most of which wouldn’t come true. "The bunch of old men?"

He nodded. Suddenly, he smiled his crooked smile again. "They’re a bit odd, but somehow cool. One is always in his study –his arms and fingers are constantly covered in paint. Another one always plays his instrument in the other living room, saxophone or what it is. He’s not very good, and it drives the Duke absolutely _nuts_." Davey laughed. "As said, there are more, but they're not around much. There's one, when he's here for a change, who spends his day shuffling around and imitating people."

"Does he tell really dumb jokes?" Lexi asked. Suddenly, there was more than a smile on her cheeks. Tears were streaming down her face.

"Yeah, actually, he does – are you alright?" Davey hesitated, and hastily, she nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Tell me about the others."

Davey gave her an unsure glance before he shrugged. "There aren’t many more I know of. One is gone very regularly and stays in his room most of the time. But he gives me really good books to read whenever I get lonely."

He fell silent. The elevator came. When the doors glided open, she could see their faces in the mirrors. Her own was blotchy from excitement under the brown skin, her curls standing up from her head in all directions. Lately she hadn't had the energy to straighten them.

As they stood next to each other, she could see Davey's and her identical cheekbones. How often had she wished for not to look as much as her father? Looking back, far too often. How much views could change.

"Are those all?" she asked one last time. She wouldn't be able to return.

"Nearly." It was almost hesitant. "I know of one other guy. He was here just one time. But he told me about you – at least I think it was you. He told me of a Lexi, but I had no idea it was his daughter." His cheeks blushed. "I didn't listen very much. I thought it was kind of boring at the time, probably."

Their eyes met, dark brown in blue. Clearing her throat, Lexi offered him her hand. It was a stiff, old-fashioned gesture they both had been taught.

"Thank you, Davey," she said quietly.

She didn’t press the button as soon as she stepped into the cabin. Davey waited on the other side of the barrier, waiting for her to disappear into a world he hadn’t seen in decades. Their eyes met again. Her fingers were nearly on the button, when he spoke up again.

"That guy. That last guy. I always thought about him, you know? Because he knew the most about life outside of this apartment. About his, our real life." A smiled appeared on the face of her young father. It felt as if her heart wanted to collapse at the thought that she would never see him again. "He loved you, a lot. As much as possible. I think we all do, even if we don’t know yet."

And he extended his arm, through the barrier, and pressed the button with the number seven, as if he knew that she wouldn't have been able to anymore. Seconds after the doors had closed, she heard herself shrieking. She didn't really feel herself sobbing and crying until a few minutes had passed. Tear were running down her cheeks. She was only able to stop when she reminded herself of her mother. She had enough to deal with; the last thing she needed was her daughter up in tears. Sniffing quietly, she dried her eyes and cheeks.

She couldn't recall whether or not the elevator had moved at all, but for now it stood still. Over the door, there was the red seven. Lexi pressed the button that opened the doors and just as expected, it worked.

"Mom?" she yelled. No answer. On the key board, there was a bright pink note that her mother had gone out and would be back around four PM.

A few seconds long, Lexi looked at the effortlessly pretty handwriting. It had been weeks since her mother had seen another human apart from her own daughter. Lexi wasn't sure whether it hurt or relieved her that life went on. She decided to be relieved; she couldn't change it. He was gone. Everything they could do was remember him.

She took the note with her, instead of just disposing it, and wanted to go to her room. She opened the door to the northern living room and a gush of air drenched her in the scent of overly sweet, fabricated vanilla.

The candle on the small table was still burning.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to pretend I have any clue of how Lexi is as a person; I needed the protagonist to be in her position, though, to get the point across. The whole thing is inspired by the idea that David Bowie's various alter egos live together in a house; I had a slightly different interpretation of this.


End file.
